Last week I "misplaced" my Sony notebook computer. Before I purchased a netbook, I lugged this machine around everywhere in a backpack. As I get older, and the end is closer to the beginning, time seems much too precious to waste. Whenever I travel on a bus, I am conscious of the fact that I am wasting time, so being able to consume the time with something useful like word processing helps to negate this wastage. Now, I'm not yet so completely insensible that I'd actually forget that I had taken the thing with me, but sometimes life throws you that knucklehead ball. For example, that morning I was waiting for a bus that zoomed right passed me, stopping at the crossing street fifty feet further. When I caught up to the bus I demanded to know why the driver had not stopped at the designated point; he claimed there wasn't enough room for the "tail" of the bus to get out of traffic, which was frankly a lie. He thought to "cheat" because I wasn't someone whose sensitivities he needn't concern himself with. I asked him if he would have stopped if I was standing at the corner; he claimed he would, but that was a lie too. So I sat there stewing. My trip was only ten minutes in duration, so I had not the time to let off all the steam when I evacuated the bus. I had other business to take care of, like my laundry. After awhile it occurred to me that I had not taken my laptop with me to the Laundromat, as I usually did. I must have left it home, right?
When I returned, I assumed I would find it, but could not find it anywhere. My heart sank right through the floor. I retraced my steps from the last point I remembered I definitely had it on my person. I concluded I had left it on the bus, and I was definitely up shit creek. The next day I would go to the Metro lost and found, but I knew it was hopeless. When I arrived, I described my missing possession to the man behind the counter, who said nothing as he examined his computer, and without got up and walked into a back room, and returned with my backpack, with the laptop still inside. I was dumbfounded with relief—and disbelief. Was it still possible that there were honest people in this world?
I confess that as I’ve grown older, I’ve become cynical on some subjects and radicalized on others, but there was a time in my younger days when I was absurdly naïve and trusting. One day I fancied that Los Angeles would be a stimulating location for a new start in life. I bought a ticket on a Greyhound bus, pocketed my life savings of about a $1,000 and off I was in search of an exciting new life. It was a 2,000 mile trip, mostly unmemorable and tiring, except when during a stop in Salt Lake City; while I was admiring the gardening on the grounds of the Mormon temple compound I was accosted by a comely female who tried to convert me to Mormonism, without success since I had to be back on the bus in 10 minutes. When I returned, I found myself seated next to a new partner, who told me he was from Los Angeles, and would be glad to help me find a place to stay, and maybe even a job; he was such a fine fellow that I showed him my roll of bills. My new friend informed me that he had just left Texas, where he and his brother were helping to tidy-up a acquaintance’s abode by moving some of his more expensive belongings into the bed of their pick-up truck, after he had gone out. That is until the police arrived after a neighbor reported the goings-on, and they were obliged to high-tail it through a few yards and over a few fences, leaving the truck behind.
Now, I’m certain that most people would be wary of “assistance” from a character of this sort, but I didn’t know anyone in L.A., and this guy seemed most willing and surprisingly friendly, given that even my name was a matter of indifference to him. When we arrived in L.A., we sat in someone’s front lawn at noon and smoked a joint as if that was a natural thing to do, and this had absolutely nothing to do with making uncomplicated my new friend’s aptitude for stealing things that were not his—like of all my money while I was dozing off. When I discovered my deprived situation, it didn’t matter if I was in a haze or a daze; I walked aimlessly about for about twelve hours around town trying to concentrate my mind on the most proficient and painless way of doing myself in. I finally collapsed late that evening in an abandoned school house full of broken glass; I fell into unconsciousness before I could consider their uses.
By the time I awoke at the dewy break of dawn, sunshiny with birds chirping and all that other garbage, I had forgotten the previous day’s tribulation and was ready to start afresh. What was that lyric from the song Me and Bobbie McGee? “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.” I thought that being a beach bum in Santa Monica would be fun, until some kids started throwing mini firecrackers at me while I trying to sleep on the ledge of a lifeguard shack. Someplace down the beach was an open restroom, where I hid in a stall until company arrived around 2 am. I won’t describe the activity that occurred in the adjoining room with the sink, because this is a PG story; thus ended my career as a beach bum.
A couple days later someone who ascertained my impoverished situation while I was discreetly scanning the garbage cans outside a McDonald’s suggested that he had a place for me to stay for awhile; I found myself in house in North Hollywood run by some Christian brotherhood of the fundamentalist variety. I won’t say that it was difficult to abide by their rules, but I sensed right-off that I wasn’t going to “fit-in.” One day we went on a tour of the local churches; by evening I was ready to go home, but the “brothers” were not. The next stop on the itinerary had one of those rituals where you stand, sit and kneel every five minutes; it was fortunate that I was on my knees when sleep overcame me, because everyone around thought this pathetic sinner was deeply in prayer, and ought not be disturbed. The next day it was more of the same. I decided that I couldn’t fake it anymore; while we were waiting outside another church, I decided to take a look around, and kept on going. In a way, I haven’t stopped.
No comments:
Post a Comment